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ichi.

The crowd was loud and an ever-pounding presence in his ears as Scott watched Ilya Rozanov beat his record at the shot-accuracy competition. 

The kid—twenty-one and only five years younger, but still a kid—yelled and grinned his usual cocky grin as he skated back to Europe’s side of the bench. When he passed by Scott, he raised an eyebrow and smirked, look at me, twenty-one and five years younger, and I beat you. Look at me.

Scott scoffed. The fact that this was just the All-Stars didn’t stop Rozanov from being competitive. Hell, it didn’t stop Scott from feeling the pang of disappointment at being beaten by a measly point forty-six seconds.

He has never liked Rozanov.

Not in the malicious way he’s heard some of the other players talk amongst themselves in the locker rooms, spitting insults and hatred stemming from venomous envy even when they watched Rozanov’s every move. The younger ones who, like Rozanov, were drafted in his year; who, unlike Rozanov, had none of the spotlight on them. These were the ones who threw chirps on and off the ice in a thinly-veiled attempt to see if the guy remembered them, desperate for any semblance of recognition, a flicker of delight from those blue eyes that would prove that they existed on the same ice as the Tsar himself.

Scott felt the five-year gap from them the most. Because he wasn’t blind to how these kids trembled and tried to stand on their own in an attempt to keep up—to catch Rozanov’s eyes and hold his gaze because if he recognized you then that meant you were worthy. That meant you deserved to be in the same league as him.

And because of that, he could see it when Rozanov sneers and leaves them in the dust. He sees it when realization kisses these kids back to sleep as they watch him fade. That, for all they tried to chase, they could never keep up.

Then, there were the veterans.

Unlike figure skating where each year was a big deal and turning thirty meant a death sentence, hockey was kinder in that sense, and only in that sense. You were either a rookie or a veteran, and Scott Hunter’s rookie days were over.

These voices were louder. It’s entirely possible that it’s because he’s more surrounded by peers of his age, but he’s not naive enough to ignore his own glass house. Here was Ilya Rozanov, a fresh face on the NHL and a prodigy from Moscow. Generational talent, they said. Speed and control like no one else’s in decades. Alternate captain in just three years, already confirmed to be captain next season, and rumor had it that he was gunning for both the Olympic gold and the Stanley fucking Cup in 2014.

The media was singing his praises. They talked in awe of him in the same breath as they sneered at him. He played dirty, unapologetic with every hit and spit on the ice. At a different bar every other night with a different woman on his arm, a new sports car every other week, and nothing good ever came out of his mouth. He had the entirety of Boston wrapped around his finger. He’s cocky, and he’s an insane son of a bitch, but the most annoying thing about him was that all of this was founded on.

Ilya Rozanov gets to be reckless and thick, and he gets to walk in a room in the middle of fucking Nashville and immediately have all eyes on him. He gets to think he’s the greatest motherfucker to exist on the ice, because that’s exactly what he is.

The greatest.

Another buzzer blasted and the crowd went wild again. Scott grinned at the sight of Shane Hollander cheering, his time flashing on the screen for everyone to see.

A whole second shaved off of Rozanov’s record.

Scott scooted over as their line made space for Hollander as he skated back. The excitement was clear on his face, and he was practically glowing with pride as he sat down. His energy was rolling off of him that Scott didn’t need to look around to see their teammates giddy and ready to hit the ice again.

It was easy to be infected by Hollander’s enthusiasm. The kid was a natural. Sure, he’s not the best at conversations, and it was a challenge to keep his attention on you when you’re talking, but when he’s playing? That focus zeroes out on just winning..

The commentary Scott hears about Rozanov were often dripping of vitriol; vows of revenge and blood on pristine white ice (which were genuinely concerning, if you asked Scott). Rozanov was the one with the energy to party and go home with anyone he wanted, but somehow, Scott has always heard the bigotry from everyone else who only ever got to watch.

And—they weren’t limited to Rozanov.

The commentary about Hollander goes differently. They’re more hushed; more evident in the side-eyes and the sneers, in the backhanded compliments and the laughter when he’s not looking. It reminded Scott of schoolyard taunts and the high school bullying of the class valedictorian, calling him a nerd just because the guy was smart enough to get ahead of everyone.

The golden boy of Ottawa, they said. Wore his first skates at age three and never took them off. His mother was a force to be reckoned with, and any tongue that tries to stand against him loudly will fall, so they do it in silence. They do it in ways that Hollander doesn’t hear, and if he does hear them, he won’t recognize that they’re taunts on him.

The envy against Rozanov was a cesspool of vitriol, hissing and screaming and taking up the little space that Rozanov himself didn’t occupy.

On the other hand, the envy against Hollander was an echo chamber of defeat. No vices to point out nor mistakes to pick on. Shane Hollander was the poster child of perfection, and everybody knew it. Hate him or love him, what’s inevitable is to be in awe of him.

They’re on commercial break as they cleared out the equipment on the ice and prepped for the next competition.

“No boring Canadians, no stupid Americans,” Scott instinctively snapped his head to the familiar annoying lilt of Rozanov’s voice and found him chatting with Hollander.

“So, what, just a bunch of Finnish guys talking about the cousins they’re in love with?” He heard Hollander retort.

He raised an eyebrow at the exchange only briefly before staring straight back at the ice. Of course Rozanov was dissing them again, and of course these two rookies were friends.

Acquaintances, or something. Has he even heard them talk casually like this before? Scott tried to dig through his memories of the past day they’ve been in Nashville, but the only thing he remembered was their press conference early that morning when the league and the media pitted them against each other yet again.

Rivalries were good and made for exhilarating stories. Hockey was obviously the core essence of the NHL, but narrative was what made up the majority of its relevance. Whether you’re from the far south to the corners of Alaska, you can’t resist good drama.

Scott wasn’t new to this. The first thing Todd sat him down for about PR and public images was that he was going to be a sob story. He needed to use his being an orphan to propel himself into being—something.

He’s a damn good hockey player and an even better captain to the Admirals, but he was not a generational talent. He wasn’t even remotely interesting. Scott Hunter played clean and was respectful to everyone. Sure, he’s training to be qualified for Sochi, and he would do anything to drag his team and himself to the podium, but that grit and determination needed something to stand on, and, apparently, having dead parents was the epitome of motivation.

His story was the most interesting there was when he got drafted third, it keeps being interesting every time he scores and his team wins, and even more interesting whenever he loses. It’s a narrative he uses and a narrative that uses him; there was no escape.

This, he knows. Which was why he also knew how much it must suck to be in either of Rozanov’s or Hollander’s shoes. It’s one thing to be the perfect son and second-generation immigrant or the Russian rockstar with a foul mouth, but it’s an entirely different story to have a narrative tailored for you to go against someone in every single way possible.

Scott wasn’t always familiar with it, but he knew how lonely it could be at the top: to be the best, and to be put on a pedestal for everyone to watch but never touch.

He couldn’t imagine finding someone who could, not only catch up to you but also, beat you when you’ve never been beaten before—to challenge you and to push you to be better—only to have that someone labeled, with finality, as your enemy. That, for all intents and purposes, you could never be friendly with each other.

Rozanov skated in front of him, close enough for Scott to think that the guy was going to make a jab at him. Except, he wasn’t looking at Scott; his attention was all on Hollander. And it was quick, it was a moment of blink-or-you-miss, but—

“1221,” he heard Rozanov say before he skated away, never turning back.

Scott couldn’t help himself. He looked at Hollander, and, huh. There it was.

Shane Hollander can be difficult to read in any other circumstance. But when he’s on the ice? Even on the bench, his energy was palpable. If you’re close enough, you’d be able to practically sense the excitement that rolled off of him.

Well, then.

ni.

“Oh my god, nothing?”

Sasha crawled his way out of the tub, letting his leather shoes stomp at the otherwise pristine porcelain, slapping the hardstone on his way up. “You don’t do coke, you don’t make jokes. You don’t flirt.”

He wobbled to a stop in front of Ilya. Oops, guess he’ll lean on the sink behind Ilya—oh, what do you know? Their faces were close. So, so close.

It’s not as if it was unfamiliar. It may have been years, but Sasha could still draw Ilya’s features even in his sleep.

“You used to be fun, Ilya,” he taunted, because that was how they worked. Taunts and digs were how they talked, daring each other to be worse than they knew they were. To be reckless—to be fun. “Remember?”

Sasha leaned in to kiss him: rough, as they always did, immediately biting at Ilya’s lower lip and pulling it just right because he knew best how Ilya liked his pain. He kept his hands roaming from Ilya’s waist, his hips, even pressing a palm to his crotch.

Sasha looked up through his lashes, ready to find the familiar lust he knew there would be in those blue eyes—blue that he had seen could emanate the earth’s skies and fields but could also darken into the rashest of storms. He’d seen it in all possible versions there could be: cerulean that only came at a specific minute between dawn and sunrise, the deep oceans that he only awarded to those that could make him forget his name. The absolute void that it could be when faced with grief and rage.

He has seen it all because it came with the territory of growing up and fucking around together. So, this blue, he knew.

This blue, he hated the most. Sasha had only seen remnants of it directed at someone else: Alexei, when he was being a piece of shit. Grigori, when he wasn’t looking. This was the shade of blue that Sasha had never been able to place, mostly because Ilya had never looked at him with so much fucking apathy.

“Here? Really?”

The words hit him, and it took everything in Sasha not to flinch nor throw them back. Instead, he tried to steer them back to their routine. “Danger did use to get you going.” This was safe. This was a kind of blue he could control.

He tried to lean back in. Maybe if he slowed down, Ilya would see reason. If he lowered his voice to a whisper, he would remember how they used to keep to themselves and hide behind closet doors while their fathers drank downstairs.

Instead, Ilya pulled back and shook his head, those same blue—Sasha still couldn’t place them, god fucking damn it—staring dead back at him. “We’re not kids anymore, Sasha.”

“We’re sure not,” Sasha said and smirked, pressing his hand harder onto Ilya’s crotch, feeling his dick and how he’d grown in the past few years they’d been apart.

Ilya stared up at him, jaw clenching. Sasha could practically see the gears in his head turning. Then, Ilya put a hand on Sasha’s chest.Before he could grin triumphantly, there was pressure on him, and the next thing he knew he was being pushed back. “Stop,” Ilya said, voice stern (and too much like his father’s).

Sasha stepped back, tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Okay, then let’s go somewhere,” he hummed.

He reached out a hand, cradling Ilya’s wrist and ready to pull him back. Ilya shook his head and took his hand back. “No,” he said, looking away.

Sasha barely stopped himself from whining at the loss. Not of the touch—they were never like that—but of those blue fucking eyes.

He met Ilya when they were eleven.

He didn’t like hockey, but he had no qualms assisting his father when he coached. The old man probably thought that exposure to the sport would eventually endear him into playing seriously, but the only thing it did to him was expose him to attraction and, a few years later, gay sex.

It was easy to fall into bed with Ilya. Sure, they were friends first and above all. He knew him when his grins were genuine and his eyes were worried. Sasha was the first person after Sveta to drag Ilya away from his mother’s body after Alexei changed. He saw how each wall crept up inch by inch, until the sky became unreachable and the water became murky.

He saw Ilya through many changes, but one thing that always stayed was how he never looked at Sasha the way Sasha wanted him to.

Ilya’s eyes would scrunch up and disappear into their own smiles whenever he laughed. Sasha knew that when this happened, his eyes were the most crystal they were.

When he’s high, they would glaze over enough to remind him of the fog that spreads through Moscow in the winter.

They were the deepest blue they were whenever Ilya was drenched in lust, and Sasha has always enjoyed drowning in them.

But—never, not once, has he had them look back at him and see him.

And Sasha understood, he did. He knew. They were friends first before they fucked, and they were friends even when they fucked. There was no universe out there where that could amount to something else. Not with who they were, and not with how they loved (too loud, too brash; none of which Ilya deserved).

So, when those lost blue eyes finally left him, Sasha didn’t chase the breath of relief he lets out. This was familiar. This was what he knew.

He nodded and stepped back, sniffing as he went. He might have murmured something about finding a party, but neither of them were paying enough attention anymore. Neither of them have been paying enough attention for a while now.

It’s neither the distance nor the time they’ve grown.

Sasha picked up his phone; hesitates.

He sighed, annoyed, before stomping back into Ilya’s space. Ilya stared back up at him defiantly, daring him. Sasha glared.

He grabbed Ilya’s jaw—gently—and pressed a kiss onto his forehead before letting go and stomping away.

“Don’t lose next time!” He said, waving a hand as he made his way to the door. He didn’t look back, not even a little. Didn’t even want to.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Sasha stopped at the threshold. He could hear the bustling of the party, and he knew that as soon as he stepped into the hallway, someone was bound to grab and introduce him to someone important.

So, he took a second. Just one, to mourn the loss of those eyes on him, and to say goodbye to their years of fooling around together.

Okay, maybe he took another second to just—laugh at the realization that Ilya fucking Rozanov was whipped.

Ilya never looked at him and for good reason. All three of them knew that he wore his heart on his fucking tear ducts. Do not stare into his corneas unless you want to see the extent of his soul.

Maybe these years have made both of them rusty, specifically Ilya, because that minute of him letting Sasha in was enough for him to know. Enough for him to see.

He laughed.

Oh, Ilya. Your eyes are clear as fucking day.

san. 

“I can’t believe that asshole’s about to win the Cup,” Hayden complained. “Shane hates him the most.”

He looked to his best friend and captain, expecting that he’ll be the first one to agree; they were rivals. Although, logically, Hayden knew that it was all a PR thing. A narrative formulated by the league and fueled by the fans. Everybody loved a good rivalry, and Shane and Rozanov’s just happened to be the best one of their generation.

Hayden was only two seasons older than him, but he has always felt a sort of protectiveness over Shane. Maybe because he came along at the same time Jackie gave birth to the twins, and this somehow stuck to Hayden that he had Jade, Emma, and Shane as his kids. Which was weird, for the record, but.

(The first time he brought this up, Jackie laughed in his face. When she met Shane, though, she had reluctantly agreed with her husband. It was one of the few times he had won against her.)

Rozanov was a cocky asshole on a different level above the usual European cocky assholeness. A good percentage of the league is European, and Hayden has met a handful of them; enough to know that Rozanov was just a plain fucking dick.

Okay, maybe ‘plain’ was inaccurate.

Still, though, one other thing that perpetuated the whole Hollander-Rozanov rivalry was the fact that they were polar opposites. Psychologically, this meant that there was at least some semblance of truth to the fabricated hatred between them. There’s gotta be tension, at least, and there was: when they’re on the ice against Boston, whether it’s at home or away, there’s just something in the air that makes Hayden freak the fuck out. Something that makes his hair stand up and his senses sharpen out of pure self-preservation. Whatever it was, it got worse the closer you were to Hollander and Rozanov—which just freaked Hayden more, because he’s Shane’s right-wing, god damn it.

So, yeah. He would expect that, right now, watching Boston win the cup—watching Rozanov win the cup before him—Shane would be at least visibly pissed. (He’s not the best at expressing his emotions, this Hayden knew, but come on.)

Instead, Shane looked—well, Hayden couldn’t quite place it.

He took a beat too long before realizing what Hayden said. “What?”

Hayden shrugged. “You hate Rozanov.” It was a fact.

Shane blinked at him, and Hayden saw it. He didn’t know what it was though, so he just goes back to watching the Russian asshole fly across the ice. Damn, he really was good.

“Of course,” Shane finally said.

“But,” Mittie sing-songed, “he’s very good at hockey.”

“The best probably,” Shane muttered, but everyone heard it. JJ said something, but Hayden was still stuck with it because he’s pretty sure the it they heard was the same it Hayden saw.

He just cannot for the fucking life of him figure out what it was.

“Not that animal shitshow cock-sucking Russian,” JJ said. Hayden threw him a look, which he didn’t know what but he hoped it was a laugh, but JJ’s raised eyebrow must mean that Hayden sent the wrong message.

The horn sounded, and Boston’s goal song could be heard beneath the commentators’ voices as they went on about how this was Boston’s first Cup in years, about how insane of a comeback Ilya Rozanov was having after that pathetic loss at the Olympics. They’d been saying the same spiels over and over since the first game of the finals that Hayden could probably recall them from memory. He’s pretty sure Shane definitely could. 

“Okay, time to fire up the grill,” Hayden groaned, standing up and depositing Jackie into the sofa he just vacated. She laughed at him and slapped his chest, to which Hayden yelped but let her push him back and to their backyard.

“You got everything there?” Jackie asked, pointing to the setup they had outside with the grill.

Hayden nodded, sliding the door open. 

Jackie nodded back. “Good, because I’m going to make sure Andropov doesn’t accidentally set himself on fire again.” She turned her back on him, walking to the kitchen and muttering under her breath, “I don’t even know how he did that the first time. We have an induction cooker, for crying out loud.”

He chuckled and shook his head as he headed to open the grilltop. Through the glass walls, he could see his teammates shuffling around the house. Some of them were going in and out of the kitchen (they head out as quickly as they come in, and always with a guilty berated look on their faces), and a few were already heading out back as well.

One, though, was still on the couch.

Shane was still in the same spot, and yeah, it hasn’t been five minutes. The channel was showing playbacks of the game, and they were probably already analyzing every second of it. That was something Shane would stay to watch, already thinking of ways to get Montreal to the Cup next year. He’s probably picking apart Boston’s plays, probably had their own games playing in his head while he was at it. He’s probably not watching the tv at all, not with the channel now showing Rozanov’s ugly mug grinning through his interview.

Hayden flicked the knob a few times until the fire caught, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

It’s not that he hated Rozanov. Like Shane, he too was caught in the media frenzy of these two hockey prodigies trading the international prospect cup between each other. One was faster and the other was stronger, smarter and meaner, most assists and most goals. You physically couldn’t mention Hollander without following up with a comment on Rozanov, nor could you give an analysis on Rozanov without comparing him to Hollander.

He wasn’t going to be surprised if Shane was being mentioned in Rozanov’s press conference right now, nor was he going to be surprised if, once the season starts back up, the first question Shane would get was ‘now that Rozanov has won a Stanley Cup, should we expect one from you, too?’.

Hayden finally got the grill hot enough, but when he looked up, the meat they had marinated was nowhere to be found. He looked around and scanned the tables they had set up near the grill and groaned.

“Hey, can someone grab the barbecue from the freezer?” He yelled.

Distantly, he heard Jackie’s voice. “Hayden, what the fuck!”

He winced and scratched the back of his neck, turning the burner back off. The door opened and out came some of their teammates, JJ and Miitka leading the pack. They had a case of beer and were sneaking to the end of the yard where the lounge chairs were and was secluded from the view inside. Hayden raised an eyebrow at them, wishing he could come and hide with them, until Shane comes out carrying a stack of tupperware containers.

He headed to Hayden with a sympathetic smile. “Jackie’s mad.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re out here? To run away from her wrath?”

Shane shrugged. “At least I brought the food. The guys just ran straight up.”

They left the meat to thaw and sit, ginger ale and beer in their respective hands. Hopefully, the summer heat would help with that. Also hopefully, they don’t get any germs by doing so.

“So, Boston won, huh.” Hayden whistled low.

Beside him, Shane nodded and took a sip. “Good for them.”

“Rozanov’s been on a tear.”

“Good for him.”

The clip in his tone made Hayden stop. He turned to his best friend, eyebrow raised. Shane was pointedly looking at the now-sweating container of barbecue in front of them.

“Yeah,” Hayden said slowly, “good for him.”

They sat in silence—as much of it as they could sit in with the low murmur of their teammates, the wind blowing, and the familiar sound of Jackie prowling from inside the house.

Oh, there’s that, too. It.

He still didn’t know what it was, which made sense because he’d only just realized it. But it also didn’t make sense, because he should know what it was already, being Shane’s best friend and A.

His hand went to his cheekbone, feeling the tender skin there, still healing from their last game’s injury. It was a clean hit, but Price was a huge motherfucker that got Hayden flying across the ice and digging his face into his own visor. Bruises and a mild concussion, but he’s pretty sure his brain got rattled.

Shane sighed, the familiar determination blowing through them as he said, “We’ll win next year.”

Hayden grinned. “Fuck yeah we will.”

They watched the still-defrosting meat. It probably won’t be until half an hour before they can finally cook, and Hayden probably won’t figure out what it was anytime soon.

He probably will, though, once he’s fully back to top health.

yon.

Svetlana’s phone dangled between her fingertips. If she wasn’t confident about her grip, and if this was the first time she was doing this, she’d worry about it falling past the terrace railing, past the sixteen floors beneath her, and splatter into pieces on the concretes of Moscow.

From her other hand, she took a drag, letting the smoke fill her lungs and her veins, watching it melt with the last snowfall of the season. The hem of her shirt dug into the base of her neck, thick material hugging her tight and keeping her warm through this ridiculous decision of smoking on the terrace while it was freezing cold at near-midnight.

There was a park nearby the apartment complex. It was not the same park they used to play in as children—not that they did that a lot, when their youth was mostly spent in ice rinks—because that park has long been demolished. 

If she thought carefully and harder on it, Svetlana would be able to feel the rust on the monkey bars she loved climbing. Even now, she could smell the honey cake that always seemed to come off of Auntie Irina despite her never bringing any when she picked them up. She could hear Ilya’s laughter; Ilya’s cries.

No, that park was on the other side of Moscow. It was in the same district where she and Ilya were raised in, the same district where Grigori was now buried. It wasn’t, however, the same district where Irina was buried. Her body was laid in a different cemetery, far from the family grave.

Near here, though. Svetlana never asked, but she knew that Ilya bought this apartment because it was close to his mother’s grave.

The park near the complex could be seen from Ilya’s terrace. Svetlana had spent many days and nights here, drinking and smoking and talking with Ilya whenever they were both in Moscow. She had her own apartment, and she still had her room in the family house, but after the shitshow with Alexei that day, she figured she’d make the most out of what little time they had with the apartment before turning it over to Ilya’s poor excuse of a brother.

Not the first time, Svetlana wondered where it all went wrong.

In her memories, the most distant ones, she could feel the rust beneath her fingertips, as well as the then-still-careful hands pushing him on the swing. She smelled the honey cake, only because what wafted from Irina somehow settled onto Alexei. Ilya got his mother’s hair and eyes, but Alexei got her smile. When Svetlana closed her eyes, she could hear Ilya’s giggles, but she also heard Alexei’s cackles.

When Svetlana listened carefully, she heard Ilya’s sobs—and nothing from Alexei.

Maybe that answered her question, after all. Where it all went wrong. Of course, of course. It wasn’t just Ilya’s world that ended when he was twelve and Irina died. It was also Alexei’s that crumbled, when he was fifteen and Irina died.

She could never forget the last time Alexei told her anything worthwhile. It was before he went over the edge, before he jumped and fell into a bed of white snow in more ways than one, calling her a whore as if he never called her his little sister.

It was three days after the news broke out, the night before Irina was set to be buried.

He had called her in the dead of the night, not unlike how it was now, actually. The march was at dawn, so Svetlana wanted to get some early sleep when Alexei called. At the time, their worlds were ending, yes, but they still had each other.

“Lyoshka?”

There was heavy breathing from the other side (still familiar, still worrisome; the world had ended, but their childhoods were still intact). “He saw her first.”

Svetlana pulled her blanket down and scooted up the headboard.

“I went with Papa, and we were out the whole day.” His voice was steady, but only in the way where you hold something so incredibly tight that it starts to tremble. He sniffed the way he did because he thought it would stop his emotions from spilling, tears from falling. “When we got home, the house was quiet. It was so quiet, Sveta, I swear I have never heard a quiet so loud.”

“Lyoshka,” she murmured.

“I called for him, and—and usually, he calls back, you know, because Papa hates it when he calls someone and we don’t respond. When Papa hates something, Mama gets sad, so—so.” His voice was still steady, but the trembling was growing harsh, like he was pushing the words through gritted teeth. Voice growing loud like he was pressing the phone to melt into his skull. “He didn’t answer. I knew something was wrong, I thought something happened to him.

“I was so scared. I was with Papa that day, because he didn’t want him. He made sure he would stay back. He didn’t want him, and I was so scared because I left,” he sobbed, finally. “I thought he had died.”

Svetlana had never heard Alexei cry at that point, and she never will again. She has and will always be familiar with Ilya’s cries, how loud he used to be and how quiet he was now, but Alexei’s sobs would be the ones to haunt her forever.

Often, she thought that maybe that was also the point where he started to hate her. With Irina gone and Ilya weak (in Grigori’s eyes; only in his eyes), Alexei needed to slot himself into place. At fifteen, he needed to be his father if only to protect Ilya. Until that protection turned to resentment, to anger, then hate. Throughout it all, Alexei had never shown any sadness. Ilya had never heard him cry, and maybe that fact made him hate her the most. And if that was true, then maybe Alexei had been right. Partially.

Maybe when Irina died, a part of Ilya did as well. And because Ilya had died, so did Alexei. It was only that the part of Ilya that died was not enough to send him into ruination, while all that’s left of Alexei was his father’s broken parts.

At twelve, Ilya had Irina’s hair and eyes. Fifteen, and Alexei had her smile.

Nearly two decades later, Ilya had Irina’s sadness, and Alexei her sigh of defeat.

(Or—maybe, they both had her sadness. Maybe, Irina left more of herself in them than her hair and eyes and smile.

If so, then Svetlana was terrified of just how angry she was of the woman that she grew up to and loved.)

The door opened behind her, and a gust of heat came out of the apartment. Svetlana didn’t bother turning around, not even when a blanket was draped over her shoulders. She sighed and finally put down her phone to tuck the blanket securely.

“You’ll get sick out here,” he said, voice deep and gravelly.

“So will you,” Svetlana replied.

Satisfied with the blanket secured around Svetlana, Ilya settled next to her and leaned on the railing. They both looked into the city, completely aware of the park and the cemetery near the complex.

Wordlessly, Svetlana passed her cigarette stick to him. Ilya eyed it for a while, only staring at the embers that were slowly dying with every second in the cold. Svetlana shook her hand a bit until Ilya finally took it and pulled a drag.

“How was your walk?” She asked while he blew the smoke out.

Ilya shrugged and didn’t answer, which made her scoff.

“How was Auntie Irina?”

Ilya took another drag and passed the stick back. “I didn’t visit her.”

They let the silence hang in the air, nothing else between and around them other than the tug-of-war between the cold Moscow night and the blast of the apartment’s heat because the door was still open.

The thing they don’t tell you about growing up with someone is how painfully aware you are of the minute details of their life; no matter how hard you try to willfully be ignorant, you will always be aware of them. So, even in the lights contrasting between the apartment and the full moon, Svetlana knew of the tear tracks on Ilya’s cheeks. Even if Moscow was drenched in darkness and fog, she would know of the phone call he just had.

She dropped her voice, despite the entire floor only being Ilya’s apartment. “How’s Jane?”

Ilya’s grip on the railing tightened. “Okay,” he said, voice steady, but only in the way it is right before it trembles—

(Svetlana has a memory from her childhood which neither Alexei nor Ilya knew about. It was a secret she swore to protect and carry to the afterlife, until she reached the only other person who was in on it.

Ilya and Alexei took to the ice like they always belonged there. They skated beautifully and played hard, a perfect caricature of their parents. On the ice, when they were on the same line, no one else would stand a chance. Ilya could pass the puck to his brother without so much as a glance, and Alexei would never disappoint.

They were beautiful to watch, a combined force that she, at ten years old, thought no one could ever beat.

Beside her, Irina beamed. “Great goal, Lyoshka! Great pass, Ilyushka!” Her boys heard her, breaking away from where they were patting each other aggressively on the back to grin and wave at their mother in unison.

When play resumed, Irina told Svetlana, “They’re one and the same, are they not?”

Neither of their eyes left the game, not when the brothers were chasing one of the opposing forwards on a breakaway. Svetlana leaned closer, though. “Huh?”

Irina giggled. “The two of them,” she gestured to her sons, “they are the same.”

Svetlana frowned. “No, they’re not.”

“They are!” Irina swore, still laughing. “They both feel so much that they cannot contain their feelings within their bodies.”

She turned to Svetlana, eyes widening comically as she made a popping motion with her hands. “They can’t hide what they feel, otherwise they explode.”

Svetlana scrunched her nose. “I don’t know, Auntie. I still don’t think they’re the same.”

“Ah,” Irina sighed, “maybe one day you will get it. But Alyoshka and Ilyushka are the same, Sveta, believe me. You and Grigori and even those two themselves, everyone always says that they are very different, but really they are just mirror images of each other.”

She turned back to the game where Alexei was trying to snatch the puck, and Ilya was already in his place, as if he already knew that Alexei would be able to get it to him. Irina pointed at them. “See how they play? They play hard and brute. It is just a practice game, but they play like their lives depend on it.”

“Because that’s how you’re supposed to play,” Svetlana pointed out.

Irina nodded. “Yes, but it’s also how they love. They love hard, and they love too much. If they love something, even if they don’t say it out loud, you will know. They lie, and you will know.”

Svetlana still didn’t get it, but what did she know?

“Even if they are as you say, I don’t think either Ilyushka or Alyoshka would like it if you told them they’re the same.”

Irina cackled. “Yes, yes, I know.” Then she placed her index finger on her lips and winked at Svetlana. “Which is why this will be our secret.”)

—And tremble it did. “I told him I loved him.”

Svetlana’s eyes fell closed as a gust of wind blew towards them. “Oh, Ilyushka.”

Beside him and pressed to her own, Ilya’s shoulders shook. He covered his face with his hands, and Svetlana watched as he let himself fall apart.

(When she died, Irina Rozanova left a letter for each of her children.

Svetlana’s letter held one wish from her: Watch them, Sveta. They will grow up to love hard and with so much of it. Alyoshka will be fine; he has his father’s strength. But Ilyushka, please look after him. He wears his heart on his sleeve. I’m afraid he got that from me.)

She watches him tremble—dangling between Shane Hollander’s fingers—before he finally, inevitably, falls.

go.

“Ilya Rozanov?” Harris raised a surprised eyebrow. “How did we get him?”

Bood shrugged and shook his head, still in disbelief. “I honestly don’t know, but I’m not complaining.”

They were at Bood’s for post-season barbecue when Wiebe told them the news. Harris, who was trying out new off-season content, may or may not have gotten the team’s reactions on film. The clip definitely wasn’t too long, though, because hearing what Wiebe said made even his phone-hand falter.

“It won’t be announced until later today,” Wiebe said, “but I’m giving you guys a heads up, so you won’t see it on the news and come banging at my door at ass o’clock.” He grumbled jokingly, rolling his eyes at the chuckles that came instinctively to the team at the memory of Holmberg flooding the team group chat when news of Hazy’s trade came in.

It’s been an hour since then, and they’d all gotten their jaws off the floor, but sitting on Bood’s porch with the Drovers’ apple ciders in their hands, the Ottawa Centaurs were still talking about it.

Ilya fucking Rozanov was coming to Ottawa.

“We gotta be in the twilight zone, right?” LaPointe, who probably still had an Ilya Rozanov poster in his room back home, said, eyes looking dazed and staring unblinkingly into the bonfire.

“Is it even possible for multiple people to be in the twilight zone at the same time?” Young asked. He, too, definitely had an Ilya Rozanov poster. He probably had a Boston 81 jersey in his apartment; he never let the team visit no matter how hard they tried.

Hayes squinted at his bottle. “I mean there was that movie.”

“I don’t even know what to expect on the first day of practice.” Dyksie blew a raspberry, laying back into his chair and staring at the darkening sky.

“Bag skates,” Chouinard lamented, nodding sadly and in a daze. He was cousins with Carmichael’s wife and heard way, way too much about The Ilya Rozanov Boston Massacre of 2016. Apparently, Carmy still had nightmares of it.

Tanner snorted, then laughed humorlessly. “You don’t think he’ll make captain immediately, right?”

No one answered. He asked, “right?” again, this time with an underlying fear in his voice.

Bood, who was currently captain, huffed out a chuckle. “Buddy, we both know the answer to that.”

Phone tucked neatly in his pocket and an amused smile hidden behind his own bottle, Harris hummed. “I wonder what made him leave Boston, though.”

“Maybe they got sick of him?” Pointy offered, which Haas immediately shook his head to.

“He’s one of the best players in the league. Even if they were sick of him, they wouldn’t let him go.”

“Yeah, look at Kent,” Hazy commented. A chorus of grumbling and “Dallas fucking Kent”s resound in the air.

Chouinard shook his head. “Also, they love him there. Respect’s one thing—because whether you like the guy or not, you gotta admit he’s pretty fuckin’ good—”

“---he’s great—”

“Okay, Haasy, keep it in your pants.”

“He’s pretty fuckin’ great,” Chouinard side-eyed a nodding Haas and a Young who was rolling his eyes, “but he’s also a genuinely good friend, apparently. I think he was St. Simon’s groomsman, and Carmy said he’s the top choice as godfather for Marlow’s non-existent child.”

Harris whistled low. “Godfather-candidate type of good friend, huh?”

Chouinard nodded. “I know, it’s insane.”

“Well, if it’s not beef with Boston, then what?” Tanner pondered.

“Hah, ‘beef with Boston’,” Dyksie laughed and playfully shoved Harris’ shoulders, “could be a title on one of your content materials.”

Harris let out a surprised laugh at the objectively okay suggestion. “You know what,” he said thoughtfully but didn’t say anything else, which made Dyksie start poking him in curiosity. Harris glared at him and poked back harder.

“Oh,” Haas suddenly exclaimed, stopping Harris and Dyksie’s poking match. Everyone’s eyes were on him, which made him retreat slightly back into his seat. He was the youngest on the team, even though he, Pointy, Young, and Bergy were drafted in the same year. It didn’t help that he was the shiest, so when he said something, everyone paid attention.

“I just thought, what if he moved to Ottawa for someone?”

This got various reactions from the team, starting with a cackling Bergy and ending with a Hazy who was just staring at Haas like he was the second coming of Christ.

“Like, a girlfriend?” Bood asked.

Haasy shrugged. “Maybe? I don’t think he has any family here. His parents are gone, and he’s got a brother who has a family, but they’re in Moscow.”

“Dude, I told you to keep it in your pants,” Young sighed dramatically which earned him a shove from Haas.

“Does he have a girlfriend?” Dyksie asked, and they all turned to Chouinard who held his hands up.

“Fuck do I know?”

“You’re the one with connections to Boston,” Pointy pointed out.

Chouinard rolled his eyes. “And Harris is friends with their social media manager, so what’s your point?”

Now, they’re all turning to Harris. He just sighed and shook his head. “Amanda’s also probably just hearing about it today.” His phone was vibrating in his pocket before he put it on DND.

“Also we don’t talk about our players.” He shrugged, and they all just looked at him as if they could see through his two layers of sweater vest and into the Shane Hollander poster in his room. So, he followed it up with “much” before taking a sip of his cider. Wow, this batch’s brew was really good.

“That would be so cute though if he did move to Ottawa for someone,” Hazy said, “you know, since there’s absolutely nothing here.”

Despite most of them being born and bred in Ottawa, they all made sounds of agreement.

“Especially if you compare it to fucking Boston, dude,” Young sighed.

“Oh my god, what if he makes us do suicides out of boredom,” Tanner winced.

Bood laughed. “I’m pretty sure even Rozanov won’t be that kind of guy.”

“Never forget the Ilya Rozanov Boston Massacre of 2016, dude,” Chouinard said, to which they all grimaced.

The porch door slid open and steps quickly filled the lull of silence. “If he did move to Ottawa for someone,” Lisa started, her own bottle of cider in hand as she made her way back to her spot next to Hazy, “we will welcome them with open arms.”

“Easy for you to say, you won’t be the one dealing with Rozanov’s attitude on the ice,” Hazy grumbled.

“No,” Selena comments from where she just sat on the arm of Chouinard’s chair, “but I’m sure you boys will find a way to use Rozanov to make our lives harder.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Chouinard mumbled, which only made Selena chuckle and press a kiss to his hair.

“Playing for Ottawa just to be close to someone,” Dyksie sighed, leaning into Caitlin, “that’s kinda romantic, not gonna lie.”

Caitlin nodded. “I’ve heard of WAGs moving for their players, but not players moving for their WAGs.”

Dyksie looked at her. “I would move teams for you.”

His wife raised an eyebrow. “You’re just saying that because you know I don’t have any reason to leave Ottawa.”

Lisa looked at Hazy. “I would move cities for you, but please don’t,” she said, “we just moved here.”

Bood turned to Cassie and just stared at her. After a few seconds, she pointedly took a sip of her wine before saying, “you don’t gotta ask me nothin’, baby, I know we’re not leaving Ottawa until you fuckin’ retire,” which made the rest of them burst into laughter.

Not all of them were happily married like Hazy, Bood, Dykstra, and Chouinard. Some of the guys had girlfriends—either long-term like Tanner’s situationship or Haasy’s elusive partner (which Harris has a very distinct gut feeling about)—and some, like Young and LaPointe, didn’t. Still, though, Harris had been a part of the team (on the peripherals, but still a part) for a good couple of years now that he felt pretty protective of their happiness albeit slightly envious of it as well.

Sure, he’s had boyfriends, but none have made him have the same heart eyes that Hazy gave his phone when Lisa texts. He’s confident he has never felt the same giddiness Tanner gets when Christina visits practice, no matter how on-and-off they are.

It’s not even as if he’s not happy being single. It’s fine. It’s great, even. The freedom is fantastic, and not having anyone to message or call at certain hours of the day feels perfect…ly sad. And pathetic. And lonely. Okay, there were pros and cons to being single, but he could never run away from the very specific time of night where he just sits in front of his friends and wonders where the hell his person is.

Because Harris sits in Bood’s porch, watching the younger players bicker over smores and the veterans arguing about which one of them would be fit for which other team while their wives mediate and instigate at the same time, and he’s happy, really, but he’s also.

He finishes off his cider but doesn’t immediately get up for another, only sits there and stares at the crackling bonfire through the empty bottle.

He wonders where Rozanov would fit.

Harris works in social media and has long been a hockey fan since before that, so he’s not a stranger to the headlines and the revolving door of women attached to Rozanov’s name. If he really did move to Ottawa for someone, then that woman had to be it for him. 

Maybe he’ll be like Bood who opens his house for the team just so he doesn’t have to be away from his wife on team bonding events. He could be like Dyksie who, one word from Caitlin and, would burn the world down for her.

Would Rozanov be the smitten type like Hazy, or would he pretend to be cool about it like Tanner?

On the non-zero chance that they’re all wrong, maybe he’d be like Harris and sit on the porch watching his friends in their own little worlds. Maybe Harris would have a buddy in this loneliness.

But wouldn’t that be cruel? If Rozanov was like Harris, that would just be plain fucking cruel. Because at least Harris didn’t have all these women throwing themselves at him, never a cold bed but still feeling utterly alone.

(But also, Harris didn’t have anyone throwing themselves at him, so he has both a cold bed and the debilitating feeling of loneliness.)

(Harris dates, he swears he does. He goes out and meets people as much as he can, but holy shit. Holy shit.)

“I still can’t believe Rozanov’s gonna be on our roster next season,” Caitlin laughs beside Harris.

He grins. “Next thing we know we’ll have Hollander, too.”

The kazoedoshi is an old traditional system of adding one year to someone’s age at the start of a new year. When you are born, you are one year old. When you are one year old, you are two.

Shane is seventeen and still in junior hockey, and because he’s seventeen and still in junior hockey, he spends new year’s eve on his parents’ couch, picking at his kumquat and watching television with them.

Totally not because he doesn’t want to spend it at a party with people who call him their friend to his face while making faces and talking about his ‘quirks’ when he’s not in the room. Maybe if he was already drafted and in his own apartment in Montreal (because he knows he’ll be drafted to Montreal; he knows it like he knows his own name), he would be spending new year’s eve on his own couch instead of with his parents. Maybe, except he’s about eighty-seven percent sure he would still come home to Ottawa to spend it with his parents. He never really understood the obsession with independence. What worth is there to being alone, especially when it’s unnecessary loneliness? He’s only seventeen; it can all wait.

So, he’s sitting on his parents’ couch in their living room because he lives here and doesn’t want to spend new year’s eve either alone or with people he doesn’t even like. Watching re-runs of an old game show is far more interesting, thank you very much.

“I mean, they’re supposed to be the horse’s front legs, right?” His dad asks. “I don’t get why they’re falling over. It doesn’t look too hard.”

“Maybe the horse is heavy?” Shane offers.

His dad frowns, confused. “Then they should just use their hands to, like, guide the horse skeleton over the hump?”

“I don’t think there’s enough space for that, David. I don’t even think they can see anything,” Shane’s mom responds. She motions for Shane to pick up the half-filled bowl from the coffee table.

“I like the other obstacle course better,” Shane comments. The bowl of orange peels are in his lap now, so it’s closer to both him and Yuna. “The one where they run into walls hoping the one they ran into is a door.”

David exclaims. “Oh, the one with five identical-looking doors, but really only one of them is an actual door and the other four are parts of the wall that are painted over?”

Shane nods. “Yep.”

“I don’t like that one,” Yuna says, crinkling her nose. She leans over to place an orange peel into the bowl. “It’s like they’re leaving it to chance.”

“Most of the game is based on chance,” Shane points out.

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be at least some kind of logic to each game, right?”

Shane shrugs. “Of course. Like that one game where they had to swing themselves into a wall. I swear, I don’t understand how most of them put too much force. It’s no wonder they always end up crashing instead of grabbing onto the wall.”

On the screen, they’re showing the players who finally reach the finish line, switching between a replay of each player’s ‘best moment’ in the course and their present reaction. The commentators were laughing about one of the leading players somehow managing to roll over and to the finish line. Huh, that’s one way to win.

He frowns instinctively, remembering the last time he won a medal. Silver.

It’s only been a few days since the World Juniors, and Shane is already itching to get back to practice. They said it won’t be at least until the weekend after new year’s, so he has an entire week of waiting around. An entire week that’ll be wasted when he should be making sure he’s constantly at the top of his game. Constantly being better than who he was when he played last time, better enough to win gold next time he faces Rozanov on the ice.

He’s been studying his games, somewhat obsessively poring over each win and loss and goal and assist. Which specific moves Rozanov does, the plays that make him score, the ones that end up with him in the penalty box, down to his ticks and mannerisms. Shane now knows that Rozanov clutches—something on—his chest whenever he scores a goal, and that the first thing he does after dropping his gloves is to throw a right hook.

Shane has seen every game Rozanov had in the World Juniors tournament, and he’s seen every single one of his own games as well. The most played one on his computer is their own finals game; when the new year bells ring, the number of replays he’s had of that footage is going to be twenty three.

It’s ridiculous how much of the guy makes Shane’s blood boil.

The arrogance and absolute confidence that he was going to win, and the undeniable ability to back it up. He’s an asshole, he’s insane, and he’s really, really fucking good at hockey.

What Shane loves about the sport is how easy it is to navigate. These are the rules and these are your opponents, what’s the play? What’s the goal? The game is full of questions, and Shane knows how to get to the answers. It’s how he’s been carving his way to the top, taking each brick thrown at him and placing them into the three-by-fours he has in his head. It’s not mechanical, but it’s predictable.

Ilya Rozanov is anything but.

Shane blinks, and the television screen is showing their local news. Oh. It’s midnight.

His mother pulls him into a hug, dragging his father from Shane’s other side until they’re all piled on the couch. The bowl of kumquat peels was still in Shane’s lap. “Happy new year!”

He tries to discreetly pull the bowl into him, securing them with one hand even as he melts into his parents’ arms.

“Happy new year,” he laughs.

There is an eight-hour time difference between Moscow and Ottawa. It has been eight hours since Rozanov greeted the new year. Shane wonders if he, too, had his parents’ arms around him when he did. 

Shane’s childhood home had shimenawa scattered throughout the house, and they had just left mochi and kumquats for his grandparents in their small altar. Incense burned where they could see them, and even though Shane didn’t think he believed in anything, he did understand when his mother told him that the gods were watching over them.

Apparently, Russians would clean their houses in preparation for the new year. Shane knew they had saints and would traditionally have images in their homes, would Rozanov’s house have them, then? Was he raised in a traditional household, even? Shane’s mother was born in Miyagi but was raised in Toronto; they try to keep parts of her Japanese heritage, but it’s not always easy. When Shane moves to Montreal, he, too, will try to keep parts of his heritage, but he knows it would be more difficult.

When Rozanov moves to North America for the NHL—because he will—would he bring parts of his heritage? Shane hopes so. Not because he’s looking forward to them—doesn’t even know if they would cross paths outside of the ice again—but because not having them would just be plain sad. Shane thinks about being two hours away from Ottawa, and his stomach immediately twists into knots. He’s been on enough road trips to know that he gets homesick too easily (does Rozanov get homesick easily, too?).

Shane shakes his head. He had too many questions, and although usually he would be elated at the challenge, this was a line of thought he didn’t think he’d find answers to soon. Or at all.

The NHL draft was going to be in June, and their last World Juniors this December.

Shane is seventeen, maybe eighteen, and he has eight hours and six months of catching up to do if he wants to beat Rozanov the next time they meet.

He can’t wait.